


Day 11: Denial

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [11]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Breathplay, F/M, Orgasm Denial, Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27079738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: A continuation of day ten, but not a conclusion, at least not for Luard.
Relationships: Morfessa/Luard
Series: Kinktober 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	Day 11: Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Haha oh my god sorry I'm so late and also Bad but mostly late because that second one isn't new but. The biggest upheaval of my entire adult life just HAS to happen This Month so. I am so busy please understand. I'm still writing.
> 
> Also yay I managed another relatively short one!

“Aren’t you glad I’m here to help you?”

Luard can’t answer. He’s long since stopped being sure of anything; things like _what am I doing_ , _how did I end up like this_ , _why do I like it when she talks to me like that_ , do _I like it_ — it all feels so spectacularly, distantly secondary to the fact that he _needs_ someone to touch his dick, and _soon_ , or he's pretty sure he's going to burst.

Fortunately, the tentacle insistently worming its way into his mouth saves him from having to articulate his thoughts, but it can’t save him from the electric heat of Morfessa’s fingers on his skin. Contrary to her words, she seems intent on _not_ helping him — unsurprising, considering, well, _her_ — opting instead to team up with the brainless pile of half-dissolved goo in tormenting every inch of him _except_ the few that need attention the most.

It’s hard to focus on any one sensation; their ministrations come from everywhere at once, massaging his distended stomach inside and out, pinching cruelly at taut, reddened skin, Morfessa’s hands reaching up to cup the curves of his ass and hold him open — even _more_ impossibly open than he already is, _somehow_ , so the tentacle can force itself even further in.

“There you go~” she says, softly, “you can do it,” and he can’t tell if she’s talking to him or to _it_ , or even where one of them ends and the other begins. So much of it is inside him, they might as well be one being.

Luard is swiftly losing the ability to think about anything at all, let alone ideas like _that_. Hanging upside down like this keeps the blood rushing incessantly to his head, and it leaves his skull feeling murky and swollen as dizziness blurs his already teary vision. Every part of him is hot, heavy, buzzing, almost like being drunk, except in his experience that comes with a lot less “feeling like your belly is going to tear open” and a lot more “violent emptying”. The accompanying erection is hit or miss, though.

Somehow, despite the stretching of his lips and jaw, despite his horribly bloated stomach, despite the skin around his hole trickling with oil that leaves everything it touches numb and prickly like a foot that’s been sat on too long while its owner was busy reading — the only thing that truly _hurts_ is his dick. It drips uselessly over his swollen stomach, feeling just as helplessly _tight_ as the rest of him, but sheathed in another, heavier layer of pain and sweat and desperation, and he’s quickly growing too exhausted to even try to struggle for it anymore.

When Morfessa’s accursed nails pinch his thigh again, _just_ close enough to send a jolt through his erection but not enough to give even the slightest relief, he _sobs_ , bitter and desperate. It comes out as a pathetically slurred whimper around the rubbery mass in his mouth.

“Oh?” Morfessa glances down at his face, as if she’d almost forgotten he was there. She smiles, and though the haze curtaining Luard’s vision it feels exaggerated, mocking, a deliberate and calculated taunt. “You’ll have to tell me what you want, Luard. I’m not a mind-reader.”

Her fingers go back to his stomach, and Luard’s part-groan, part-howl is lost again to his persistent oral invader as it grabs its chance to surge forward, its sleek head slamming against the back of his throat and crushing his unspoken complaint that actually, mind-reading is _definitely_ within Morfessa’s extensive repertoire of spells.

But of course, that’s not her point — Luard gags, convulses, the sour bile draining into his throat left with nowhere to come up as the tentacle fills it out, and suddenly he’s stretching even _further_ , the skin under his chin pulled just as tight as his stomach and asshole _and his dick, please, please_ — the point is that he _can’t_ tell her, not like this, and she knows it — and she crouches before him, bringing herself down to his head-height so she can lay her hands _there_ too, caressing the ribbed bulge in his neck, gently prodding and testing and confirming that not only can he not speak, like this, he can’t even _breathe_ — the point is that she’s going to _leave_ him, just _leave him like this and_ — _and—_

“Nothing?” she asks. “You _did_ tell me you needed help, but I guess if you’ve got nothing to say…” She trails off, pointedly, ignoring Luard’s dazed, muffled moans as she straightens up.

His lungs are quickly being stretched thin now too, he can feel it; his breathing was so shallow to begin with that there’s nothing to stop them burning immediately, but even _that_ , even his body’s most basic need to _breathe_ is overshadowed by pure, unhinged _desire_. His hips buck against his captor’s grip, weak and unbidden, but neither the creature nor Morfessa pay it any mind. Shudders and struggles aren’t an acceptable plea to Lady Morfessa, but they’re all Luard can offer now, with his arms and legs wound tight and his body violated and plugged at both ends. The coiled pressure between his legs is too much to bear; he’d surely come at the slightest touch, but the threat of that humiliation is _nothing_ compared to this, to being so _full_ and having no release.

“A shame, really,” Morfessa says, to herself more than to him, as she pulls her gloves back on. “Well, if you change your mind, just shout. I’m sure someone will hear you. Probably. Oh, wait, we put up those sound-dampening wards after your last accident, didn’t we?”

She turns away, and through Luard’s dimming, heat-blurred eyes he catches the barest glimpse of her tall, pointed, obsidian-black heels as she steps carefully over his strewn books.

“Tell you what, I’ll come back to check on you in a few hours, shall I?” she asks, over her shoulder.

Luard’s heart leaps, even as the dim remains of logic drowning in his bedraggled brain remind him _exactly what that implies —_ assuming the still-dissolving creature even survives that long and doesn't just melt away to leave him lying alone on the floor, half-choked and sobbing, too weak to even jerk himself off.

“If I remember, of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> I... will try and do another couple more shorter works, like sub-1k, maybe. Maybe with some more different niche pairs.
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


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